A Different Call
by Karu-DarkAngel
Summary: Natasha Romanova was almost eight hours into her third day in Ekaterinburg when she noticed that she had a tail. clintasha. BlackHawk.


**A/N: There are many stories out there about how Natasha and Clint first met, and this is mine. It's not Budapest (that's years later), but it's the beginning and without a beginning there is no story. I hope you have as much fun reading as I had writing it.  
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**Special thanks to nonoctemolke for beta reading.  
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**[Natasha's last name is Romanova here as opposed Romanoff in the movie, because the second is not an actual Russian surname.]  
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**Warnings: **mentions of violence and murder (M for safety)**  
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**Dislcaimer: **I love writing about them, but unfortunately I don't own Clint and Natasha.**  
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* * *

"_Before I worked for SHIELD, I uh... well, I made a name for myself. I have a very specific skillset. I didn't care who I used it for, or on. I got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me, he made a different call."_

* * *

_Ekaterinburg, February 1994_

Natasha Romanova was almost eight hours into her third day in Ekaterinburg when she noticed that she had a tail.

It wasn't anything that he'd done wrong, just her instinct kicking in and telling her that there was somebody watching her. She took a quick, unseen glance around the street, which only confirmed that there was indeed no one suspicious anywhere in sight – what affirmed the already existing knowledge that whoever had managed to follow _her_ without her noticing immediately had to be _very good_ at their job.

He couldn't have been there for more than two days tops, but that would've been enough to kill her many times over. The thought made the Black Widow itch to get rid of her pursuer as quickly as possible.

For a second she wondered who'd sent her newest assassin, but decided that it didn't matter.

At least it wasn't that persistent fool from Interpol that she'd finally lost some ten days ago in Perm. They were the most annoying breed and while she'd been really tempted to get rid of him, Natasha knew that that would've only worked in her disadvantage. Killing one only meant that there would be a new, _overeager_ one a few weeks later, and while they usually were bloody careless, they also had the tendency to detect things their cooled down predecessors hadn't.

_Kill first, think later._

That sentence had been drilled into her head a long time ago, but by now she knew better. Killing may was the easier option, but it also tended to leave one with even more problems afterwards. Not taking them out had actually worked in her favor more times than not.

The problem with this new tail was simply that he was good and that Natasha didn't have time. Getting rid of a man – and this one was definitely male, she just _knew_ it – that had managed to follow her unnoticed for that long would take days. It wasn't included in her already strict schedule, and changing the date now was not an option. She'd been paid good money for that local drug lord to be dead in five days, so five days it would be.

Cursing under her breath in Russian the Black Widow started to alter her well-planned game plan in her head.

She'd have to work around the hunter – for that was what he _thought_ he was – and while that would be troublesome it was nothing she couldn't pull off. He was a normal human after all, or more normal than she was at any rate. The man needed at least four decent hours of sleep a day to function properly, and since she could stay awake for days without major difficulties it gave her a 3-hour-window every 24 hours… not the best of conditions, but she'd worked with less.

One the outside nothing changed in her expressing when she continued walking down the street towards the little café she liked to have her late breakfast in. On the inside however she gathered all the intel she had on her tail – which wasn't much – in an attempt to effectively work around him.

It was a man, about that she was certain. Somewhere between 20 and 40, though his age was pretty much open to the top. The fact that she hadn't noticed him earlier meant that he wasn't following her on foot, but since there wasn't a single location from which all the city's back alleys could be overlooked, he still had to be following her in some way. Far enough away to avoid her keen senses but close enough to not lose her in the hubbub of the crowd… _the roofs_.

The Black Widow didn't look up but made a mental note to watch more closely the next time she looked at the sky. She doubted that her pursuer would hide in plain sight, but everyone got careless once in a while – everyone but _her_, of course.

Her obvious conclusion was that her tail was a sniper, and she didn't like it one bit. Close combat was something she excelled in, no matter if she had a weapon or not, but snipers had the annoying tendency to strike you down before you could come close enough to beat the shit out of them.

The odds weren't in her favor, but Natasha had learnt to work with that a long time ago.

So she went to the café like she'd planned to, had the coffee she'd looked forward to having the whole day, and then walked back to her rented apartment like the dull resident girl she portrayed – she wouldn't get anything productive done during the day anyway.

For the last two days she had picked up her usual habit of sleeping through the sunset and was now grateful for it. The hours before the night had fully taken hold of the city were useless to her since the kind of illegal business she was interested in tended to share hours with the various bars and nightclubs of the city.

The hawk watching her must've picked up on her sleeping hours by now and shifted his own sleep pattern accordingly. After all, there was nothing to do for him when she was idle and he _needed_ the sleep.

She would simply work around him and be on her way out of the country before he realized that he'd lost her … it wasn't as if she hadn't done the exact same thing before.

* * *

Three days without any sleep, getting to know the sewerage of Ekaterinburg too close up for her liking and six killed men of _another_ drug lord later, all she wanted to be was done with it.

Go in, kill the target, get out. That had been the plan.

Looking back she really should've come up with a more elaborate scheme, but finishing off a greedy second class drug dealer was as easy as her job ever got. She was the Black Widow and this kind of mission was just too far below her skill level to put her in any real danger. Her biggest concern wasn't the security of the place or how to kill Sergej Anatolyevich Razin, it was actually _the fucking bullet from last night still in her left side_.

One man was lying dead by her feet with another three coming for her when Natasha was sure that she'd been snitched on. It didn't matter who'd blown her cover, it just annoyed her that things were unnecessary complicated now – the wound was starting to really hurt and she became angrier by the minute.

Taking the last of the thugs out with a blow to the jaw that sent him flying she was on the move again, down the corridor and up the stairs. Sergej's "office" was one the front side of the building a floor above her current position and she had memorized the patrol well enough that she'd just have to round the next corner and then-

They both stopped dead in their tracks, his bow pointed to the ground and her dagger pointed at his neck.

Bluish grey eyes locked with hers and Natasha stared back in astonishment, initially reverting to her native tongue before switching to the English she knew he understood, "_A kid!_ You are a fucking kid."

During her whole stay in the city she had not once managed to lay an eye upon him, but it was still clear as day that this was her silent pursuer.

He was barely a man. American, young enough for her to ponder if he was even legal in his own country. Sharp eyes, very quick response time, a well-balanced stance, taunt muscles that tensed under her gaze… he was good enough to know better than to try to even move a finger, but it was still a surprise finding out that her tail – the hawk that had been watching her constantly for the last days – was that _young_. She'd guessed between 20 and 40 but not really expected for him to be closer to boyhood than to his prime.

Cursing she threw the dagger and a smoke bomb right after to get him off her tail at least long enough to finish her damn job.

She ducked behind a corner just in time to avoid another patrol of four heavily armed men – only idiots carried heavy arms in confined space – and watched them heading in the direction she'd come from. That would keep her pursuer occupied for a while and buy her some additional time.

After that she didn't care much for the mess she made. She'd already been busted, damage control wasn't really much of an option anymore and so she just took out everything that came too close to her or stood between her and her prey.

Sergej screamed like a little girl when she came at him, swinging his fists widely, missing her and looking at the Black Widow with wide, horrified eyes when she grabbed his head and sliced open his throat with her second dagger – a pity really, the other one had been handmade and she'd wasted good equipment throwing it after her tail, not even making sure that she killed him in the process.

For a moment she swayed dangerously on her feet, then cast the useless body aside and made her way to the door. Damn, the lack of sleep was finally getting to her and the adrenaline leaving her body only made her more aware of the burning in her left side.

With a growl she kicked the door open and turned towards her planned escape route, barely avoiding a blow that was directed at her head. Spinning around left her feeling dizzier than she should have and if he'd been a little faster the next one would've actually connected with her stomach in a very painful way. Instead his fist grazed her side when she dodged the attack, leaving a burning tail of pain along her ribs in its wake.

It was not enough to send the Black Widow to her knees, but the pain still made her stagger a step back. She saw the blow coming from her peripheral vision, dropped down to the floor to dodge it… and then everything went black.

* * *

Natasha woke up in pain, but that wasn't anything extraordinary to her.

What bothered her more was the fact that she hadn't a clear memory of where or how she'd lost consciousness, and that there were sounds close by – _too_ close by. Soft breathing indicated only one person, but her headache made verifying that without opening her eyes pretty much impossible.

Steps came closer to her position now and then someone – definitely male, at least her sense of smell was still working – bent over her until she could almost feel his slow, even breathing on her face.

Not moving a muscle she played possum, waiting until the man had to feel certain that she was still out of it, before she opened her eyes and lunged forward, intending to go for his eyes and his balls next – a strong hand closed around her wrist immediately, and although the surprise was all over his face her tail still had the presence of mind to push her back into the mattress before she could even come close to knocking him unconscious.

"Stay down, dammit! You'll only hurt yourself." he hissed into her ear, knowing better than to let go of her without the certainty that she wouldn't go after him again.

Her response was to snap at his neck, her teeth actually grazing his skin.

"I said _stop that_, or I'll knock you out again." was his fierce response, his hands pressing hers into the mattress beside her body, his superior weight preventing her from throwing him off.

This time Natasha actually stilled. Being awake gave her the advantage of being aware of what was happening around her, and she'd need that knowledge to get the hell out of here.

He wasn't dumb however and knew better than to just let her go. Instead her tail secured both her hands to the bed with a thick piece of rope that she would need time to get out of – at least her legs and torso weren't bound. She'd make him regret that mistake later.

His grey eyes are hard when he made eye contact, "Now, if you stay still I can finish here… because I'm not good at patching up people, and you trying to kill me doesn't make the job any easier."

_That_ got her attention.

Really concentrating on her body for the first time after her wakening Natasha instantly realized why he hadn't done it before: _pain_. The bullet wound was positively throbbing now, not to mention the pair of fractured ribs and the headache she had. There were minor cuts and bruises spread all over her body, but they didn't bother her – what did however, was the infusion in her left arm.

Natasha Romanova _hated_ needles.

"What do you want?" she hissed through clenched teeth, trying to keep the pain from showing in her voice.

A lopsided grin spread on his lips, "Keeping you alive, for a start."

Well, that made it easier for her. Fighting someone with his skill who aimed to kill wasn't a possibility at her current level. Natasha didn't like to admit it, but from what she remembered of their brief fight he wasn't bad at hand-to-hand, and her lack of sleep only put her further at a disadvantage.

He was out of her field of vision now, but she still heard him fill a syringe. She'd known that sound _anywhere_.

She couldn't help but tense up, coiled to strike if he dared to come anywhere near her with that injection – she may have not been at her best, but she'd fight tooth and nail if the man believed that she'd let him put a needle anywhere in her body as long as she was conscious.

Their eyes locked again when he came to stand beside her.

"Come on, don't be like that." he ran a hand through his short, dark blond hair, "Just a peck and it'll be over…"

In response she bared her teeth at him, letting the young man standing beside the bed know exactly what she thought of his proposal. _Over her dead body_.

He sighed, "You need that, okay? You have a high temperature and your breathing is too fast. You're developing a sepsis… so you either let me give you that antibiotic or die a very slow and very painful death, because it's not like you can just go to a hospital with that wound, right?"

His eyes traveled to the point where her blood had soaked through the suit and left a dark brown stain on the material. He hadn't taken it off, but just freed her arms and pulled the zipper down far enough for her black bra to be visible.

"Why should I trust you?" a lesser man would've cringed at the venom in her voice.

"If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."

For a few seconds the Widow just looked at him in silence – she'd forgotten how young he was, so young and so naïve, actually believing that death was the worst in this world that could happen to her – and then she threw her head back and laughed, an honest, rich sound that she hadn't know she was still capable of producing.

"What?" he snarled, a scowl on his face that made him look older than he actually was.

She grinned, ignoring the question, "What's your name, boy?"

If looks had been able to kill she'd been dead for calling him _boy_, but Natasha didn't care. It was amusing to see that he was still young enough to be thrown off by a casual insult like this.

"Clint. Clint, Barton."

It was his real name. It could just as well have been an alias but she had worn false names, false identities, too long to not notice the difference between a cover and the real thing – what didn't mean that she knew why he was actually giving her his real name instead of some alias she wouldn't have bothered to remember.

Making eye contact she lowered her voice to something between a purr and a whisper, "Natasha Romanova."

His eyes were wide when he stared at her and she knew with absolute certainty that if she wanted to she could seduce Clint Barton, could make him fall for her right there right then, fuck him and then kill him afterwards. It was a powerful knowledge and together with his look of _awe_ on his face it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the fever or the pain in her side.

The only thing that stopped her was the fact that he was telling the truth.

Her heart rate was off too, and the throbbing of the wound together with his obvious diagnosis didn't leave for any other conclusion but sepsis – an illness that held the prospect of fatality. _Even for the Black Widow_.

Of yes, she'd survived worse, but not by much, and only on a few occasions... fear of death wasn't in her repertoire, but Natasha knew very well that getting treatment right now would increase her change of survival considerably. She didn't plan on dying anytime soon.

Relaxing her tense muscles she restored eye contact, not saying a word. Her stare was enough to tell him that if what he was about to give her was _anything_ beyond a simple antibiotic she would be making him pay for the rest of his life, slowly, dragging out the pain as much as possible, before she left him in a filthy back alley to be beat up and raped before he died either of thirst or his injuries – whichever came first.

There was a hint of insecurity in his grey eyes, but his hands were still steady as a rock when he gave her the shot.

He threw the empty syringe away after he was done, "You need something for the pain…? There's a mild painkiller in your infusion, but it's mostly just fluid to keep your blood pressure down."

Neither of them had looked away yet.

"I'm fine." Natasha shook her head, careful to keep the movement sparse to not make her headache any more painful than it already was – she didn't do pain meds, never had.

His lips curled up into a faint grin, "That's a _yes_ then."

She just raised an eyebrow in response, _daring_ him to come close to her with a shot again. The fact that she'd let him give her one to increase her chance of survival didn't mean that she wouldn't fight to kill if he tried a second time. _Try me_.

Even with his young age Clint Barton was clever enough to not spite the Black Widow. If it hadn't been for her sleep deprivation, a bullet hole in her side and the beginning of a sepsis he wouldn't have been able to best her in hand-to-hand combat, and they both knew it – stupidly trying to force his will onto her wasn't worth the risk.

"So what do you want to do with me now?" there was a subtle hint of teasing in her voice, and the twitch of his brow told her that he was well aware of it.

"I'll have to get you out of that suit." he explained with his head held high, the defiance all too obvious in his eyes, "That wound is most likely where the blood poisoning comes from."

His willingness to take her on in a battle of wills amused Natasha to no end – it was like a child crossing wits with an adult, with the only difference being that he wouldn't recover from having his pride crushed as fast as a kid would have. Men tended to take things like this personal.

She was bound to a bed by a man that had both the order and the means to kill her, not knowing where she was or how much time had passed, and still she couldn't help but grin when the young Clint Barton stepped closer to her, his fingers going for the zipper of her catsuit with more hesitation than he would've liked to admit.

"Is the little hawk afraid of the black spider?" she was openly mocking him now.

"Quiet, woman!" his angry growl was the most masculine thing she'd heard of him all night.

Natasha chuckled when his hand stopped after having pulled down her zipper not more than an inch, grey eyes almost nervously darting up to hers. He was the attentive kind, and she would've betted good money that it had saved his life more than once and would continue to do so for decades – if he survived today, of course.

"No trying to kill me, okay? I'm trying to save your life here." he warned.

She bared her teeth at him in a dangerous smile, "I could say yes, but where's the fun in that?"

His response actually surprised her when he didn't complain but simply leaped onto the bed and straddled her thighs, effectively grounding her into the mattress and preventing any attempt of hers to use her legs to strangle him – what she probably would've done if he'd continued otherwise.

"_This_ is a dangerous position for a man to be in."

He gulped visibly – she couldn't say whether it was from actual fear or the sexual innuendo in both her words and their position – at her words and the vulnerability of that gesture drew a low purr from the Widow.

At least the young man was clever enough not to react otherwise to her provocation. Instead he chose to ignore her and concentrate on the task at hand …though his hand was very slow when he brought it to her zipper again, grey eyes still examining her, ensuring that she wouldn't decide to suddenly change her mind and really try to kill him.

Putting his left hand on her right hip to keep his balance, his right one gently moved the zipper all the way down to her stomach, exposing her feverish skin to the cool air of the room. After that he slowly, carefully, peeled the garment off her body, the tips of his fingers faintly brushing against her when he left the suit to pool around her hips.

It took minutes until he was done because Clint Barton was actually making an effort to not cause her any more pain than absolutely necessary.

While his fingers were cool on her skin – on the brink of leaving her freezing, but still blissfully pleasant because they took the edge off the heat – they didn't feel entirely uncomfortable, never straying or lingering too long where they shouldn't have. He was as attentive with his hands as his eyes were, but didn't sneak a feel even when he had the chance to, instead opting to keep every contact of skin on skin as quick as possible.

...it was ironic that Natasha couldn't remember a man ever having touched her that _reverently_.

_You are beautiful_. He didn't say it out loud, but then again he didn't have to. His fingers and even more his _eyes_ betrayed the detached look on his face and his even breathing, the intensity in his gaze probably identical to the expression he wore when he drew his bow for a killing shot.

"When did you get shot?" he asked, looking at her in disbelief.

"Around sunset yesterday, when you were having your beauty sleep." the chance to mock him some more was just too good to pass up on.

He was quicker than she'd thought he'd be, "When was the last time you slept?"

Handing him that information would place her at a clear disadvantage and so she didn't. Not knowing would only make the hawk wonder, and wondering always added to the many mysteries that surrounded the Black Widow – the insecurity of not knowing what exactly she was capable of never stopped to install fear in her opponents.

"You went in there without knowing the perimeter, probably days without sleep and a fresh bullet wound… are you suicidal?" the man was seriously upset with her now, his fingers gently sweeping over the glaring red flesh where the bullet had embedded itself into her body.

"No." she gave him a stern look, "I just don't let minor issues stop me from doing my job."

It was obvious that a snide remark was already on his lips, but in the end he chose to not comment on it and concentrate on checking her injury more closely – even his barely-there touch had stung, and when he started to peck at the wound in earnest to get an outline of the severity of the injury Natasha had to press her lips together to not accidently let out a sound of pain.

"Did you disinfect the wound?" he asked eventually, brow furrowed.

She opened her mouth to tell the boy that she was many things but not _incompetent_ when the thumb of his right hand pressed down on a spot where the bullet had to be under her skin, and the only thing that left her lips was a short, pained groan.

Clint Barton immediately pulled his hand off her skin, a frown on his face. He took another look at her red flesh before his head shot up and their eyes locked. There was disbelief in his eyes.

"You… that bullet_ is still in there_?"

The look of utter shock on his face actually amused Natasha.

Government agents… they always liked to think of themselves as _hardcore_, when in reality they fell apart as soon as you caused them anything more than a minor flesh wound. They lost their heads when they were outnumbered, without backup or both and in most cases couldn't even handle basic torture for more than a day. They were _worthless_.

"Without me here to patch you up that'd kill you." his expression was serious.

"Without you here I would be on my way out of this shithole already." her expression mirrored his, "Unscathed, well rested and without _a bloody_ _bullet hole_ in my side."

They just stared at each other for a moment – green eyes boring into grey ones – then he averted his gaze and climbed off her to rummage through a bag at the far end of the nearly empty room.

Natasha hadn't expected anything else. He was one of the _good guys_ after all, the ones that wanted to believe that what they did was good, _justice_, and that by murdering some people they were helping to ensure the peaceful life of the majority of mankind – in reality it was nothing but a filthy lie however, and she had just called him out on it.

"Have you ever pulled a bullet out of yourself before?" resignation was strong in his words, but there was also curiosity.

"More than once." she confirmed and then added on an afterthought, "Hurts like a bitch. You have any booze?"

He indeed had, coming back with a bottle of vodka in one and a sharp piece of metal that perhaps had once been silverware in the other hand. There was a grim expression on his face, and for once he looked more like a soldier than a man barely beyond his teenage years.

"So how do you do this?" he wanted to know while re-taking his former place on her tights, way less hesitant this time around.

She lifted an eyebrow, "Ideally I'd say you cut me free and let me do it myself …pulling metal out of flesh is ugly business. You have absolutely no experience and I don't want to bleed to death."

"No." there was no room for discussion in his voice, "You are a wreck, I doubt you could even walk three straight steps if I'd let you up… not to mention that I'm not dumb enough to put a potential murder weapon in your hand."

Oh, he was a clever one indeed. She'd hardly ever met an agent as competent as him, and all those she had met had been years older than Clint Barton – he had the potential to be one of the best, someday.

"Give me some of that vodka." the Widow didn't try to argue, knowing that it would be futile anyway. Instead she gave a nod towards the bottle in his left hand and opened her mouth, rolling her eyes when he set it to her lips carefully. She gulped down a few swigs of the offered alcohol, grimacing at the taste of it.

"They charged you double of what this stuff is worth."

After taking it away from her mouth he took a gulp directly from the bottle, his face mimicking her earlier reaction, "Definitely… now talk me through this."

She did …cursing first in English and switching back to her native Russian when he pain became nearly unbearable, burring her nails as deep as possible in her palms to distract herself, groaning and biting her lower lip until she tasted blood.

It took longer than it would have if she'd done it, but she also had to admit that it was less messy. His fingers never once trembled during the whole procedure, and his weight holding her down prevented her from involuntarily jerking up from the pain and stabbing herself to death.

The bullet hit the floor with a metallic thud when the archer was done.

"…did I hear _God, dog _and_ whore_ in the last one?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

His deathly pale face kind of betrayed him, but Natasha let it slip – for a first try he'd been rather good. She was actually astonished that he hadn't vomited.

"Yes. Don't ask." she motioned for the bottle of vodka and he obliged.

The glass felt marvelously cool against her bruised lip and she gulped down the familiar alcohol greedily, some of it running down the sides of her mouth and down her neck, but she was long past the stage of caring for trivialities like that.

Grey eyes followed the flow of the liquid down the column of her throat to the valley between her breasts, once again burning with that remarkable _intensity_. There was lust in his gaze this time, but also blood thirst, violence, a certain admiration and an emotion she couldn't quite put a name to.

A soft chuckle escaped her lips, "So you're a man after all."

Instead of an answer he leaned closer, his torso coming dangerously close to hers, one of his hands bracing his weight at her side. She gave him a lecherous grin in response and slowly, ever so slowly, the same grin formed on his lips. Leaning further down, not even a hand's width of space separating their bodies, Clint Barton made eye contact.

Natasha actually made the mistake of getting lost in his heated gaze for a second… and hissed in pain when he emptied the vodka bottle over her wound.

His eyes became hard, "That was a close call, you should be more careful."

Her laugh was both cruel and bitter when it resounded from the bare stone walls – it made him recoil to an upright position immediately.

All pretence was gone from her face now, "_Not even close._"

He obviously didn't know what to say in response, drawn between wanting to get as much space as possible between them and moving closer again in hope of getting an explanation. It was cute how he neither knew what to do nor what to make of her words.

"The scar on my right breast." she motioned with her head for him to take a look.

For a moment he just sat there motionless, then blinked once in surprise before slowly leaning down over her form again. His movements were careful when he brought his head close to her chest to search for the scar she referred to – as if he was scared to come too close to her.

When he furrowed his brow it was clear that he didn't get a good look and Natasha rolled her eyes at him, "God, just pull the bra down if you can't see it! …other men die for that sight."

His behavior irritated her more than it should have.

She knew how to deal with shy men, the kind that didn't dare touch a woman. She was used to men who would tear her clothes apart to get a look of her body faster. She had long learned to make even the most frigid ones lust for her body … but Clint Barton was another case entirely. He wanted her – she knew that he did – and he wasn't afraid of her, but he still refused to really touch her.

Tantalizingly slow his hand came forward to touch her bra, cool, steady fingers pulling the black garment down far enough for him to see the faint scar that was barely visible against the white flesh of her breast.

An involuntary hiss escaped him when he finally had a full view.

The well-healed and almost faded line ran horizontally across the swell of her breast. It was a beautiful scar of almost two inches in length, a pretty reminder that even the Black Widow was mortal.

"…how did you survive that?" _awe_ was thick in his voice.

"He hesitated. I didn't." she answered honestly, remembering another night in another cold Russian winter with another men in another bed.

He nodded vaguely, "Why didn't you kill _me_?"

_That_ was the one question she didn't have an answer to… because she should have killed him. Yes, at first it would've interfered with her timing, but at the latest when was standing in front of her in the drug lord's house she should've gone for the kill. There had been no excuse not do it. He was gathering intel on her, he was in the way and it would've taken only minutes to finish him off. It would've been the only reasonable course of action… but she hadn't done it.

It probably had been his age. The Widow hadn't expected her target to be that young – Natasha didn't kill children if it wasn't necessary.

"Why didn't _you_ kill me?" she retorted instead of giving an answer.

"My organization got you on the radar as a potential threat a few months ago when you killed that American manager. The reports said that you were without conscious, brutally efficient and beyond control. My mission was to gather intel on you, confirm the reports and kill you afterwards…" he shrugged, "They were wrong."

His eyes locked with hers and held the gaze when he leaned forward, his deft fingers making quick work of the knots that bound her wrists to the bed.

"You are the most skilled assassin I have ever met, you don't hesitate to make a kill and you are ruthless against your enemies… but you are not without conscious. _You didn't kill me_."

She wanted to hurt him for being so trusting, to slap him right cross the face for being careless enough to untie her bounds and give her the perfect opportunity to kill him.

"I could kill you, you fool." she snarled, livid at his stupidity.

"But you won't." he replied, his eyes telling Natasha things she couldn't make sense of.

The unbelievable thing was that he was right. She wouldn't kill him, hadn't been able to do it hours ago and wouldn't be able to do it now – it was irrational and probably the most foolish thing she had ever done, but for once the Black Widow couldn't bring herself to slay the man before her.

"This will get both of us killed." growling in frustration she sat up, ignoring both the fact that she had a bleeding hole in her side and that Clint Barton was still sitting on her thighs.

He had the gall to grin, "Not necessarily."

Her hands shot up and grabbed his shoulders in frustration – though less hard on the right side where bandages were covering the spot her dagger had grazed him. The man was absolutely nuts… and on the best way to drag her down with him.

"What do you suggest then? …running from another government organization?" it was clear in her voice how much the thought of running away disgusted her.

"…how about being permanently employed for a change?"

With one simple sentence the hawk managed what hundreds of men before him hadn't: he left her speechless.

Natasha could do nothing but stare at him, silently debating whether it was him or her that had lost it – because really, he couldn't be serious about that. He was what, twenty, twenty-one? …way too young to have enough pull in whatever organization he worked in to just get the Black Widow accepted into their ranks. But she was probably worse… _because she actually considered it_.

"You can't decide that."

Neither of them had looked away yet. It felt like their eyes were connected inseperably.

"No, I can't." he was still grinning, "But my boss likes to have the best on his team."

Clint broke their silent stare down then, jumping off her and walking across the room to the gym bag that carried his supplies. He rummaged through it and came back with a fresh set of bandages, sitting back down on her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She remained silent when he dressed the wound carefully, wrapping the rough stripe of clothing around her midriff tight enough to stop the bleeding but still with enough space for her to breathe freely.

When he was done Natasha allowed herself the luxury of a sigh, "…the perimeter is secure?"

"Of course." he looked almost insulted.

"Then move the bed in that corner. We'll have two walls in our back and both the window and the door in view." she commanded, subconsciously pulling rank, "…I'll need a full night's sleep before I'm going anywhere."

He obliged – though she would never know for what reasons – and within ten minutes they had moved the bed in the perfect position _to kill them first_ if someone decided to join in, both eaten a pair of ration bars and were sitting on the bed wrapped in as many layers of clothing as possible to keep the cold away.

Not even a minute later the even breathing beside her told Natasha that Clint Barton was dead to the world, his head sliding down the wall until it rested on her shoulder, his breathing tickling her ear.

The position was entirely unfamiliar to her, but not as disturbing as she'd thought it would be. Actually it was… well, not _nice_, but a part of her – that she solely pinned on the blood loss and lack of sleep – was almost comfortable with for once going to sleep beside a human being without the fear of being killed in her sleep.

…_you are not without conscious_. He was the first person who had ever trusted her. Not her skills, not her reputation, _her_, Natasha Romanova. Clint Barton had trusted her, had placed his life in her hands and simply _believed_ that she wouldn't kill him.

He was a fool, and she was, too.

* * *

"_Love is for children. I owe him a debt."_

* * *

_I had to delete about 1,500 words in-between because this story was just too damn long. Erasing that was pretty hard because I actually tried doing a fighting scene, but whatever ... there's no romance and no sex, but I still hope that you're satisfied. Ah, I need sleep, ignore my rambling._

_There exists currently one sequel to this story called "Killing Time" and a partially tie-in from Clint's point of view unter der title "Half A Century".  
_

_[Natasha is older than Clint here, because I took their backgrouns from the comics where she in fact is older.]  
_

**I'd be really happy if you leave a review.**


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